


Revenants and Reverends

by LittleBlueLantern



Category: UnDeadwood (Web Series)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Found Family, Grief, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, UnDeadwood Mini-series (Critical Role), oh wow look it's my kink: emotional vulnerability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:40:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23553934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleBlueLantern/pseuds/LittleBlueLantern
Summary: Despite burying Clayton, the man doesn't seem to have gotten the message - Matthew is seeing him every time he shuts his eyes. This is worrying for two reasons:1. Matthew isn't used to seeing dead people so often in his dreams;2. It really isn't helping him move on from his infuriating crush.Oh. And he's still hearing the disembodied voice of an eldritch card shark. What else could go wrong?
Relationships: Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe, Miriam Landisman/Arabella Whitlock
Comments: 7
Kudos: 36





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my beta, dameneptune!

They bury Clayton the following day. It’s neither overcast nor sunny, and Matthew recites the words he has recited many times before.

“O grant that we, with those who are already dead in Thy faith and fear, may together partake of a joyful resurrection. Amen.”

There are a surprising number of people at the funeral, or perhaps not so surprising, given Clayton’s hand in saving the town over the past few days. God. Only a few days. Matthew stumbles in his speech, struck by in how little time their family has been formed and destroyed.

Still, for all that the entire town seems to be there, they hang back, leaving a wide berth between them and the sad grouping before them. Arabella clutches tight to Miriam, who stares vacantly ahead, eyes blank and bloodshot.

Aloysius is not present.

Matthew doesn’t really care where Aloysius is, as long as it’s not right in front of him. _Something is wrong with him_ , the old priest’s voice says, and Matthew hates that voice right now. He hasn’t the strength to fix it, so he doesn’t. He leaves it be.

The dreams don’t start till the night after.

“It’s a fine pickle we’re in,” Clayton says from where he’s leaning against the desk in the room.

Matthew stares.

Clayton stares back, his hand idly drawing a pattern up and down his arm.

“Clayton,” Matthew says slowly. “You’re dead.”

As one they both look at Clayton’s chest, where a bloodstain blooms slowly across his shirt.

“Huh,” Clayton says. “How about that.”

He lifts his head and smiles at Matthew, that same ironic smile he had when Aloysius shot him in the street. Smiles and bleeds.

Matthew wakes up and vomits all over the floor.

The worst part is how normal life is afterwards. He still preaches on Sundays, keeps the church open for those who seek it. Some days he even has attendees. He eats breakfast each morning with Miriam and Arabella, and each morning they pointedly don’t remark on the two empty chairs at their table.

He could give up, he knows. Stop preaching, actually drink the whiskey he’s always offered by the townsfolk, and then the whole bottle, and then just not get up again.

It’s the knowledge that he couldn’t come back from it that keeps him upright, keeps him working, as tempting as it is to just slip away.

He falters once, and only the once, when he wakes one morning and the enormity of Clayton’s absence seems particularly heavy. He can feel it, weighing on his chest, filling the room, and he just. Lays there. He watches the light crawl across the floor as the hours pass and calculates how long it would take his body to starve to death.

His will to live appears in the form of a petite woman with a spine of steel and a tongue to match.

“You were late for breakfast, Matthew,” Miriam says as she sets down a thermos on the bedside table. “Had me and Arabella mighty worried.”

She pours him coffee, pulls toast wrapped in napkins from her purse, an orange from her pocket.

“I’ll say this as many times as we both need,” she murmurs. “I cannot lose another friend, Matthew. So you’re just going to have to keep holding on, for both our sakes.”

He swallows. “Yes, ma’am.”

Matthew has never had coffee with someone where they were both crying, but he supposes there’s a first time for everything.

Sleeping is still impossible.

 _What would you do to get him back?_ The voice asks, and Matthew hears the sounds of cards being shuffled.

_What would you give?_

He wakes in a cold sweat.

He’s taken to drinking in Clayton’s spot in the Gem, most nights. Well. He orders the whisky, but when Johnny comes to wipe the table the glass is left full, coins beside it more than covering the tab. Johnny just shakes his head and every week returns the change to the church collection box.

He’s sitting in his usual corner, head down over his scriptures, when someone sits across from him.

Brittany smiles and pulls out her own flask, pouring them both shots. “Haven’t seen you much outside of Church, Father. Me and the girls were missing your visits.”

Brittany and the other ladies are his most regular churchgoers. Her comment sounds lewd, but only just, and Brittany’s voice lacks the teasing she usually gives him and the other men.

He smiles, but he can tell it’s not his best. “Been a little scatterbrained as of late, apologies.”

Brittany watches him over the corner of her glass. “Tell me what you miss most about him.”

Matthew chokes. “I’m sorry,” he wheezes, coughing up whiskey. “What?”

Brittany pours him more despite his protests. “Tell me what you miss most about Clayton. I find myself missing that damned constant politeness of his - irritated me to no end in the beginning, but I guess it grew on me.” She takes a sip. “Your turn.”

With a start, Matthew realizes they may have buried Clayton, but they never mourned him. Even back in his regiment days, when there was little time for ceremony and ritual, they still took time to speak of the dead.

Well. Mostly.

“Are we having a wake, Miss Brittany?” He asks, setting his glass down. “Awful small.”

She throws up her hands. “You caught me.”

Matthew chuckles, and stares thoughtfully over her shoulder. “He was awful polite, wasn’t he?”

“To a fault.”

Maybe it’s the whiskey, maybe it’s the way Brittany is smiling gently at him across the table, maybe it’s both, but the words manage to wind themselves up out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“I miss the way he’d look when you could make him laugh.” He says it quiet, soft. Brittany may be a friend but he’ll never forget the nature of the town he lives in, and they’re not alone in this bar. “A real laugh, not a fake one. He’d look so surprised - like he’d forgotten how.” _And it was as sweet as it was sad,_ Matthew doesn’t say, but he thinks it.

“So it _was_ like that, then,” Brittany says just as quiet, her hand placed over his.

Matthew smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“No,” he says. “It wasn’t.” He takes a sip. “Makes this,” he gestures to himself, and to the situation at large, “all the more pitiful for it. Didn’t lose anything to begin with.”

Her eyes soften, and she hums in understanding. “Sometimes,” she says, then breaks off and waits, gathering her words. “Sometimes, mourning a lost beginning stings just as bad.”

They sit in silence for a while. Brittany raises her glass to him. “To lost beginnings.”

He downs his shot. “To lost beginnings.” 

He’s not sure if it’s the whiskey or the reminiscing, but he sees Clayton in his room again that night.

“Sorry about the mess,” Clayton says, gesturing to the blood still slowly seeping from his chest. “Can’t seem to do much about it.”

Matthew heaves a weary sigh. “The floors have seen much worse before, I’m sure.”

He startles as Clayton places a hand on his forehead, combs his hair back. “Gotta take care of yourself, Matty. Can’t leave the flock unattended, now can you?”

Matthew closes his eyes and leans into the touch. “But I did,” he says after a moment. “I did leave you.”

When he opens his eyes he’s alone, but his forehead burns from the touch of a hand.

The thing is, Brittany had been more right than he’d let on.

There’d been a few moments, razor sharp in his memory, now, where they almost stopped dancing around each other. Almost touched. _Almost, almost, almost._

Part of him, the part that kept him alive in the regiment, kept him sharp, knows it’s ridiculous to be feeling this way over a man he barely knew. Didn’t know at all, if you take into account his false name and mysterious past. The other part, the one that kept him alive once he left, once the horrors became too real and too much - that part is louder. He thinks they could’ve been something, if they’d had the time to figure it out. He’d taken Clayton’s meager belongings from the hotel room, after their little wake. No one else to give them to, after all. Whoever Clayton had been before, no kin was coming forward. No way to contact them even if they knew.

No way Matthew was parting with what little he had left of Clayton, anyway.

He falls asleep stroking the buttons on the shirt cuff.

 _What would you do to get him back?_ The voice asks, and again Matthew hears the sounds of cards being shuffled.

_What would you give?_

Matthew wakes and buries his head in his hands.

_Anything._


	2. Chapter 2

The church doors slam open and Arabella appears only long enough to holler, “he’s heading to the fucking train station, get your ass out here!”

He and Arabella make it just in time to see Miriam shouting at an impassive Aloysius. His blank face is made more uncanny next to Miriam’s tear stained cheeks. She sees them arrive and relief crosses her face. Arabella slides off her horse and crosses to Miriam immediately, placing a hand on her shoulder.

Something in Matthew balks. Aly’s eyes are too even, too calm, and he knows in his gut that something isn’t right. Aly – Aloysius, hasn’t been Aly since he shot their friend down in cold blood – tips his hat, turns, and begins to walk to the train.

Matthew snaps.

He casts out with his mind like he did not even a week before, searching and searching till he finds what he wants and pulls. He hears delighted laughter from somewhere not on this earth and time slows to a standstill. Miriam and Arabella stand beside him, but they stand as if underwater, slow and sluggish and gone. Aloysius continues to move, but gradually, dreamlike.

It is the work of a moment for Matthew to move behind him.

He’s reaching for his gun before he realizes it, brings the butt down against Aloysius’s skull before he can even turn around.

The crack of metal against flesh breaks the stillness, and Aloysius drops like a bag of stones.

There is a breath of perfect, complete silence, before the platform erupts into noise. Other passengers and townsfolk are yelling, but Matthew ignores them. He hefts Aloysius onto his shoulder without a word and turns back to the horses, Arabella at his side. People begin clamoring for his attention, pushing their way towards him.

A gunshot rings out loud, and he turns to see Miriam, her gun to the sky and calm, blank fury on her face.

“I suggest,” she says to the unruly crowd, “that you all return to your business, and let us return to ours. Now.”

The second miracle of the day is that they actually do.

All along the ride back to town, Matthew feels the crackle of power growing in his veins, and the feeling of cold breath on his cheek.

“Well,” Arabella says, hands on her hips. Aloysius’s unconscious body lays on the church floor. “What now?”

‘What now’ turns out to be tying up their once-friend and storing him in the church basement, his head resting against a sack of turnips. 

Then they just wait. 

  
  


He’s cold and cool for the next few days, blank and unresisting as they take turns bringing food down. 

Until one day he’s not. 

“You back with us, Aloysius?” Matthew asks. His voice is even but his hands are curled tight around the tray. 

He knows the answer as soon as the other man looks up at him. There’s horror there, and guilt, and anger - and Aly is back with them. 

“It was like being underwater,” Aly says, gaze fixed somewhere in the distance. “Could see everything, hear everything, couldn’t do anything about it. Didn’t  _ care _ to do anything about it.” 

They stand in silence. 

“He missed on purpose,” Aly says. “I know he did.” 

“Yeah,” Matthew clears his throat. “He did.” 

He sets the tray down with a sigh, and turns to head back up the ladder. “Come on then. Let’s go inform the ladies.” 

  
  
Miriam takes one look at Aly and slaps him across the face, hard. The sound of the slap hasn’t faded before she’s enveloped him in a hug, sobbing. 

“I know,” Aly says over and over, “I know, Miriam.” 

Arabella’s hand creeps into his.

Miriam lets go of Aly with a shuddering breath, and they all sit down around the little table in Matthew’s room. 

“What tipped you off in the first place?” Arabella asks. “I knew he was hiding something, but I didn’t go digging.” 

“Swearengen,” Aly says, scowling at his cup. “He showed me his wanted poster. Said not to cause a mess in his bar.” 

“Motherfucker,” Arabella spits. Her knuckles are white around her glass. “What, it wasn’t enough we fixed all his problems, now he’s trying to get rid of us?”

“We’ll deal with him,” Matthew says. “But first we need to handle Clayton.” 

“Reverend,” Aly says slowly, “the body’s been in the ground for more than a week now – maybe if it were winter, but-” He breaks off at the look on Mathew’s face. “What in the hell did you do.”

Matthew looks at Arabella helplessly, who looks down at her hands. “What needed to be done.”

Aly swears and Miriam goes white.

“If there was a chance,” Arabella says haltingly. “Even a chance.” She doesn’t finish, but she doesn’t need to. What they’ve done is clear enough.

“Where is he.”

Matthew laughs, a dry, horrible thing. “Where else?”

Matthew is very, very glad they don’t run into Mr. Whitlock as they all traipse into the house. Arabella leads them in a solemn procession into the kitchen, where she and Matthew hoist the cellar door open. One by one, they descend the steps into the darkness, and Arabella closes the door above them. For a brief, terrible moment, Matthew is certain they won’t make it out again, until Arabella strikes a match, and the soft glow of a lamp fills the space. 

Matthew hears Miriam take in a sharp breath. Clayton is before them, cold and still as he lays suspended on a bed of ice. Arabella’s machine breathes and groans, and from here Matthew can see the wires piercing his skin, the rise and fall of his chest as the motor powers his tattered heart and lungs. 

His eyes are mercifully closed. 

“What in the lord…” Aly says, taking a halting step forward. “Jesus.” 

“Arabella, honey,” Miriam whispers, taking the woman’s face in her hands. “What did you do?”

For the first time since the shooting, Matthew sees Arabella break. She starts to cry in Miriam’s arms. 

“Don’t blame her,” Matthew says, weary. “I asked.” 

Arabella shakes her head violently, sobs still wracking her body. “No,” she says. “I wanted to do it, too. Wanted to find a way to bring him back.” 

“How -” Aly doesn’t finish, still staring at Clayton. 

“I’ve been reading,” Matthew gestures at Arabella and corrects himself, “ _ We’ve _ been reading. We think there’s a way.”

“And what will it cost?” Miriam asks, still holding Arabella. “Are we going to get him back only to lose one of you, too? Because I refuse to make that trade,  _ Father. _ ”

Matthew winces. 

Arabella’s stopped crying, and she runs her arms along Miriam’s before taking a step back, tangling their hands together. “No, Miriam,” she says softly. “We wouldn’t do that to you.” 

“You’d  _ better _ not,” Miriam says sharply, but her face relaxes slightly. 

“Still,” Aly says, “I can imagine the cost will be high.” 

Matthew sighs. “Yes.” 

“We all have to give a part of ourselves,” Arabella says, wiping her eyes. “We have to give enough to bring him back.” 

“We’ll be weakened for it as individuals,” Matthew continues. “But stronger as a whole.” 

“That doesn’t make any damn sense,” Aly says, “but I guess it doesn’t need to, does it?” He crosses over to Arabella and hugs her. “I’m sorry baby,” he says. They stand there for a long time, Arabella’s arms wrapped just as tight around Aly. “What do you need us to do?” 

She looks over his shoulder at Matthew and he nods at her. This is what they’ve been waiting for. 

She smiles, shaky but determined. “Got a pack of cards, Aloysius?” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'll definitely be able to finish this in a timely manner," I said. "The pandemic won't keep me from writing," I said.  
> Well uh here it is! Hope everyone is staying as safe and healthy as they can during these absolutely bonkers times.

The first thing Clayton registers is the darkness. Opening his eyes does nothing, closing them does nothing – wherever he is, light does not exist. He thinks about moving and his limbs move, he thinks about breathing and he breathes, and still nothing changes around him.

He slept, and woke, and slept again.

“—leave you.”

_Matthew?_

The man’s voice is distant, and garbled, but Clayton knows that tenor anywhere.

_Matthew!_

“so sorry...”

Clayton spun around, trying to peel apart the void with his hands. Nothing solid took shape, but in the distance he swore he saw the shadows lighten – a dull gray where before had been midnight black.

He takes a deep breath and begins walking.

They decide the best place for the attempt is the graveyard at the top of the hill. No one goes there unless absolutely necessary, and Arabella hadn’t wanted Clayton to wake up underground. Matthew tries not to look too closely at how a graveyard has become more comforting than a root cellar. They arrange themselves in a circle, Clayton lying in the middle. Arabella passes a ball of string, and one by one they tie themselves to each other. Aly hands Matthew a deck of cards, face determined. 

“Go on then, honey,” Miriam says. “Let’s bring our boy back.” 

Arabella nods, her hand clasped tight with Miriam’s.

Matthew opens his eyes to darkness. He and his compatriots are seated around a table, the head spot left empty. They are in what can only be described as the void. From somewhere he hears the faint sound of cards being shuffled. 

“ _Holy shit_ ,” Arabella whispers.

The sound of shuffling cards is louder, now. Matthew feels his presence before he sees him, and then the Dealer is there in front of them, long fingers flexing and curling over the deck. His face is still nauseatingly devoid of any features, and he seems at once taller than the clouds and the size of a regular man. 

“Just look at the cards,” Arabella whispers to them all. “Don’t try and look at his face.” Matthew tears his eyes away from the horribly vast expanse of the being before them, and the nausea fades. 

“It’s been a while,” the Dealer says, and the cards leap from hand to hand, a violent flurry of movement. “What do my brave adventurers want this time? More power, Aloysius?” 

Aly grits his teeth and stays quiet. 

The Dealer laughs and sits at the head of the table. 

“We want our friend back,” Miriam says. “Soul and mind intact.” 

“And body,” Arabella adds. “My machine won’t keep him breathing forever.” 

The Dealer tuts. “Such demands.” And then he _twists_ , and Matthew’s stomach drops down to his shoes. The Dealer has contorted over the table they’re seated at and is now staring up at them like an owl, featureless head turned at an impossible angle. “And what will you give _me?_ ” 

“What we’ve always given you,” Matthew says firmly. “A game.” 

The Dealer wags a finger. “That’s what got you in the door, Priest.” The hands skitter forward. “What’s going to let you back _out?_ ”

Clayton’s body materializes in the Dealer’s lap, appearing for all the world like a beloved ragdoll. “I won this one fair and square,” the Dealer croons. “What could you possibly trade to take him back?” 

“Time,” Arabella says. “Something we can’t get back. The years he lost.”

The Dealer hums. “But I have so much time, here in this void.” They curl with a sickening crunch to look Arabella in the eye. “Why do I need more?”

Arabella’s hands clench, but she stares him back just the same. “Not just time. Belief. Power.”

Matthew licks his lips. “Prayer.”

The Dealer tilts their head, considering. “I have so many worshippers. So many calling out for deals, for second chances in this hellhole of a town—”

“Weaklings,” Aly says. “Little wishes. Drops in a bucket. You know what we can provide.”

The Dealer practically purrs. “It’s true I haven’t tasted such _potent_ desires since you all arrived, and this particular wish...” The being’s spindly fingers tap an inconsistent rhythm along the table, along Clayton’s cheek. “Very well.”

“To seal the deal,” they say, and spread the deck in front of them. They smile. “Pick your cards, ladies and gentlemen.” 

Matthew’s hands shake as he draws. He knows what it will be before he flips it, and something in him cries in relief as he reveals the king of spades.

There is a moment of silence.

The Dealer howls with laughter at the gleaming card, their deck spinning madly about their form. His friends vanish, and the Dealer towers over him, terrible and obligatory.

“Poetic,” they sing, and swallow Matthew whole.

Matthew can’t move, can’t scream. Pain wracks his body, his veins tearing themselves apart from the inside out. He thinks he feels hands – teeth – rearranging his insides, but he can’t crane his neck far enough to check - and he’s not sure he wants to. For a long moment Matthew isn’t sure he remembers how to breathe, until his lungs start functioning again and he sucks in a painful breath of air. 

Then the darkness vanishes, the graveyard coming into view once more. 

“ _What the hell_ ,” a raspy voice breaks Matthew from his pained haze. He struggles to sit up, and sees Clayton sitting beside them, staring at his hands. Clayton looks him in the eyes, stunned.

Arabella gives a cry and flings herself at him, nearly knocking him back into the dirt. He catches her with a grunt. “Easy there, Miss Whitlock. Easy.” 

“You utter _ass_ ,” Arabella says, half-laughing, half-crying. “ _Fuck_ you, you insufferable bastard! If someone shoots at you, you _duck_!” Clayton hugs her back hard, and his voice breaks when he answers. “Always knew you were smarter than me, ‘Bella.” 

“Good to see you back with us, Mr. Clayton,” Miriam says, tears streaming down her face. “Now get over here.” Clayton and Arabella scramble to their feet, staggering over to Miriam, who tugs them down into a firm embrace. 

He pauses when Aly stands in front of him. “Are you all back?” Clayton asks. Aly nods sharply. “Then there’s nothing to forgive,” Clayton says, and extends his hand. “Fuck that,” Aly says, and draws him into a hug. “Fuck that.” Clayton gives a shaky laugh.

“Clayton,” Matthew says, relieved, and reaches out a hand. Clayton flinches. Panic flashes across Clayton’s eyes, almost faster than Matthew can catch it. He offers a shaky smile, and clasps his hand on Matthew’s shoulder instead. “Good to see you too, Reverend.” 

His shoulder aches the entire walk back into town.

They introduce him as Amos, and if anyone has any thoughts about it, they don’t speak it where others can hear.

Swearengen had wisely kept his mouth shut, after Aly and Clayton went and met with him separate from the group. Matthew would’ve paid good money to be a fly on the wall for that conversation, but he contents himself with the fact that the man’s survival instinct is apparently stronger than his desire to cause chaos.

But just because Swearengen isn’t engineering trouble doesn’t mean it can’t find them on its own. The man has a contract ready and waiting when they swing by one morning, and out they go again.

The monsters this time are all too human. Matthew can’t decide if he prefers mundane cruelty or magical fuckery, but either way, the bandits are worth a hefty bounty. That’s motivation enough, these days. He marks the five figures against the tally in his head and raises his gun. Arabella and Miriam have circled behind, Aly and Clayton on the flanks.

The thieves don’t stand a chance.

In short order, they’re bound and gagged and a fire is crackling in the clearing. They’re too far out to make it back to town before dawn, so a makeshift camp it is.

He keeps a close eye on the huddled figures and doesn’t look up as Clayton sits next to him. He wishes he had something to do with his hands, but he doesn’t dare take apart his gun to clean it.

“Haven’t had much time to speak with each other, Reverend.” Clayton says. The real meaning is unsaid: _you’ve been avoiding me._

“Apologies, Mr. Sharpe,” Matthew says, running his eyes over the captives.

_Three, four, five._

“Been busy with the church.”

It’s a piss poor excuse and they both know it. There’s been no extra construction since he came to town, and his congregation is small at best, nonexistent at worst. He’d have a bigger audience preaching in the saloon.

Clayton quirks an eyebrow. “Then I guess I’ll have to come to Sunday sermon to get you alone.”

 _Two, three, four -_ Matthew’s mind blanks as the fifth bandit is most decidedly not by the others slumped in front of them.

 _Shit_.

He stands abruptly, but Miriam is already shouting as a knife catches her in the side. Pain glances across his ribs, and he hears Clayton hitch a breath as well, surprised. The fifth man is making a desperate bid for his fellows still tied by the fire. He doesn’t make it three paces before Arabella has her gun cocked and pointed directly in his face.

“Sit. Your. Ass. Down.” Her voice could cut steel. At this range, the man’s head would be more a fine mist than anything else, should she pull the trigger, and they all know it.

Miriam catches Arabella’s arm, her other hand pressed tightly to her side. “We need all of them alive to collect the bounty.”

 _“Fuck_ the bounty!” Arabella snarls, but she lowers her arm all the same. The man – truly an idiot if Matthew ever saw one – grins and winks at Miriam.

The crack of Arabella’s pistol against his skull is loud enough to make even Clayton wince.

They check the bindings on the others, throw them on their horses, and ride off. They might’ve faced worse before, but no one’s willing to push their luck after a near miss. Arabella remains tight lipped and cold for the entire journey back, not straying from Miriam’s side for a moment.

They stop just before dawn to dismount and give the horses a break, and for Arabella to check that the bleeding hasn’t gotten worse. Aly sidles up next to him and points to the left side of his own ribcage, mouthing silently. _You too?_ Matthew nods. The pain is almost gone, now, but he can still feel the lingering burn of a knife blade slicing his skin.

Yet Miriam is the only one who’s bleeding.

Aly shakes his head and taps his shoulder, leading his horse away. “We’ll deal with it back in town,” he says, and that’s that.

They make it back by late afternoon, making a mad dash to return before fate shits on them once more. Johnny is waiting for them outside the saloon, and he and some other of Swearengen’s men lead their horses and their prey out of sight.

Arabella sighs. “Shall we go drink my husband’s fine wine while we discuss the clusterfuck that just happened?”

There’s a chorus of agreement, and soon they find themselves in Mr. Whitlock’s parlor, a fire burning cheerily in the hearth and several bottles of excellent vintage poured. Arabella takes Miriam to another room to finally examine her properly.

Arabella returns with bloodied bandages in her hand and a frown on her face. They watch as she tosses the bandages into the fireplace. “Miriam’s wound was nowhere near as severe as it should have been,” she says at last. None of them say anything. “Her wound has already started to heal. It looks like it’s weeks old, not hours. Did you also—” She stops. Arabella rubs her eyes and stares blankly into the flames.

Clayton clears his throat. “Yes.”

Aly sighs. “I did too.”

Matthew raises his hand. “As did I.”

Arabella lets her head fall onto the mantle with a _thunk_. “Fuck.”

“I take that as a yes from you, too?” Aly says wryly. Arabella flips him off without looking.

Matthew pulls his shirt up, staring. There, on his left side, is a four-inch long scar, newly pink and shiny, fading even as he looks at it. He jolts as fingers run across the edge, and looks up at Clayton, speechless. Clayton snatches his hand back, an unreadable expression on his face. “Sorry.”

They hear the sound of a polite cough from the doorway, and all look up to see Miriam regarding them with a fond if exasperated expression. “It’s rude to discuss a lady when she’s not present, you know.”

She swans into the room, only slightly paler than usual, and sits in an armchair by the fire, pulling Arabella into her lap. “I told you to rest,” Arabella scolds, but it lacks any real heat. “I am resting,” Miriam says, looking up at her with completely manufactured innocence. “I’m sitting with my doctor.”

“Fine,” Arabella grumbles, but she relaxes slightly, and her hand comes up to play with Miriam’s hair.

“So if we all felt the injury,” Aly begins slowly, “does that mean we all took the damage?”

Matthew feels something cold gathering in his stomach.

Clayton shakes his head thoughtfully. “Not all of us bled.”

“Do you think it depends on the severity?” Miriam asks, her thumb drawing circles on the back of Arabella’s hand. “Or the distance?”

Arabella shrugs. “Without us performing some truly awful tests, we can’t know.” Then she gets a _look_ in her eyes, the kind Matthew knows means shit’s coming. “We could test it,” she says, staring at some point in the distance. “Just a little. Hold on.” She springs up and vanishes through the doorway.

Matthew can tell the exact moment Arabella has done something, because they all wince in unison as a sharp pain explodes on the top of his left foot. When Arabella rushes back in she’s limping a little.

“Well?” She asks breathlessly. “Did you feel it?”

“Ow.” Clayton says dryly. “My foot.”

Aly grabs Arabella’s hand before she can reach for the letter opener on the sideboard.

“Enough experiments for one night, I think.”

She grumbles but goes to sit with Miriam.

“So,” she says, once she’s settled. “What now?”

Clayton shrugs. “Business as usual, I guess. Try not to get hurt anymore than we usually do.”

Arabella snorts. “Because we’re so good at that.”

“Well, might as well call it a night,” Miriam says. “We’ll figure it out in the morning.”

Matthew determinedly does not meet her gaze.

They leave the women sitting together, murmuring by the fire, and spill out into the brisk night air. The stars are shining coldly above them, in a way that could be called beautiful, if one felt like being optimistic.

Aly nods at them and heads away into the night.

Matthew keeps his head tipped back up at the stars.

“Heading back, Reverend?” Clayton asks.

“Seems that way.”

“Let me walk you back.”

Matthew looks at him. His hands are tucked neatly in his pockets, and he stands relaxed, just – just looking at him. Matthew clears his throat.

“Yeah. Alright.”

They don’t mention that there’s no need; that most people care for the bumbling Reverend figure he’s created, that he’s over six feet tall and armed, that the town also knows he’s not so bumbling after all. They don’t mention that of the two of them, a recently resurrected gunslinger might be a bigger target than a holy man.

They walk back in silence, or in as much silence as there is in Deadwood at this time of night. A banjo is going somewhere, a fight somewhere else. Matthew marks the shadows that pass them and doesn’t breathe until they reach the church.

Matthew doesn’t go in; Clayton doesn’t leave.

For the first time since returning to town, Clayton looks hesitant.

“There’s a spare bedroll in my room,” Matthew says without meaning too. “It’s getting late to be walking around.” It’s not, and Clayton can take care of himself, but the sting goes away when something like relief flashes across Clayton’s face.

“That’d be appreciated,” he says, and follows Matthew like a shadow up the stairs.

The bundle of talons that had dug into his chest cavity unclenches a little, seeing Clayton with his rolled up shirtsleeves, laying out the bedroll in the corner. The lamplight softens him, and makes clear the lack of blood on his chest.

The dark doesn’t seem as oppressive, tonight.

“Good night, Clayton.”

A breath.

“Good night, Matthew.”

Clayton is gone the next morning when he wakes, which he tells himself is a good thing. If he was almost undone over the man’s bare forearms, he’s not sure what the sight of Clayton soft and sleepwarm would do to him.

He is actually tied up with church business that day – a baptism, two funerals, some rotted planks cleared away. He’s sore, but in a way that means he’s done good work, and he heads to the Gem Saloon that evening with something almost approaching contentment in his chest.

It vanishes the second he steps inside. Clayton is sitting in his usual spot – _their spot_ , the voice in his mind whispers – and he stops dead in his tracks. Of course Clayton would go back to his old haunts, he scolds himself. _Now turn around before he sees you_ —

“Reverend!” Clayton calls, and so much for that.

“Mr. Sharpe,” he returns, pulling out a chair. “Anything interesting happen today?”

“Always something interesting happening,” Clayton says, drawing his eyes over Matthew’s body.

Matthew’s knee slams into the table. Both of them wince.

“Good to hear,” Matthew chokes out, and signals to Johnny for a drink.

Before Clayton can respond, a man bumps into their table. Matthew doesn’t recognize him, and he reeks of whiskey. The stranger ignores Matthew to stare intently at Clayton.

“Dead men ought’a stay dead,” the man sneers, hand going to the knife on his belt. “Freak a’nature, that’s what you are.” 

Matthew slams his head against the table. “I recommend,” he snarls, “that you keep that opinion to yourself, or you might find yourself without a tongue to speak with.” 

“Reverend, easy!” 

The man struggles, dazed but not done spitting curses, and Matthew bashes his head against the table again. Distantly, he can hear someone calling his name. 

“Matthew!” Clayton catches his arm before he can slam the drunkard’s head down again. Blood and spittle drips from the man’s lips and lands on the table. When Matthew drops his hold on his head, he doesn’t rise again, wisely staying slumped over in his seat. 

Johnny comes by with a worried look in his eye, but Matthew doesn’t stay to hear his concerns.

Clayton catches up to him inside the church. He eyes him warily where he’s pacing in front of the altar. “Can’t help but notice you seemed a little upset, back there.”

“Upset? Of course I’m upset!” Matthew laughs bitterly. “You got a huge target painted on your back, thanks to us – thanks to _me_.”

“Pretty sure you’re the reason I have a back at all, all things considered.”

“Clayton,” Matthew says slowly. “I brought you back to a life you don’t want, tethered to a man you can’t leave.”

“Man I can’t leave, huh,” Clayton says, stepping closer.

Matthew throws his hands in the air. “You saw what happened back there – if anything happens to us, you’re going down too! We’re four walking deathtraps!”

"You damned fool,” Clayton says. He is much, much closer than Matthew realized. “Why the hell would I leave you?”

Matthew freezes. Clayton pushes him against the altar.

“You think I was fixin’ to walk out that bar with all that money, never speak to any of you again? Think it was only Aly’s bullet that stopped me?” He’s a hair’s breadth from Matthew, now, his breath warm on his cheek. “I could’ve left that job any time I wanted.” He draws his nose along Matthew’s jaw, takes his ear between his teeth.

“Please,” Matthew finds himself saying. “Please.” 

“Yeah,” Clayton says, moving back to stare at his face. “Think this suits me just fine.” 

Then he kisses him. 

It feels more like a claim than a kiss, but Matthew isn’t complaining. He’s too busy leaving handprints on Clayton’s hips.

“Last night was the first night I slept without his voice in the back of my head,” Clayton whispers into his neck. His hands tremble against Matthew’s sides.

“I’ve got you,” Matthew says, cupping Clayton’s face in his hand. “Always.”

A slow grin unfurls across Clayton’s face. “Take me to bed, Reverend.”

The evening happens in hazy fragments. Matthew doesn’t remember going up the stairs, but he does remember the coarse stitching of Clayton’s shirt as Matthew tugged it off his frame. Everything but Clayton fades away into the background, the best tunnel vision Matthew’s ever had.

He gets a warm thrill at seeing their clothes jumbled on the floor together, at Clayton’s boots next to his. He feels even better when Clayton is held in his lap, passing him a tin of vaseline.

“C’mon, Matty,” Clayton murmurs in his ear, “wanna feel you.”

“Wanna know it’s real.”

Matthew drops the tin a few times, smears oil all over their skin, but eventually he’s two fingers deep and Clayton’s rocking against him.

“You can go faster, c’mon,” Clayton mutters, thrusting his hips. “Not gonna break.”

Matthew smoothes a hand over his hip, his other hand stretching Clayton open slowly. He shushes him. “Gonna take my time,” he says, curling his fingers. “Wanna do this right.”

Clayton _sobs,_ his throat working as Matthew finds that spot inside him.

“I could hear your voice,” Clayton murmurs into his ear. “When I was gone.” He hitches his hips up, sinks down deeper. “Heard you calling after me.” They both go still as he lowers himself onto Matthew’s cock.

“Jesus fucking Christ in heaven.”

“It’s Matthew, actually,” Matthew grits out, hands clamped like a vise around Clayton’s waist.

Clayton groans. “I should leave.”

Mathew rolls his hips up experimentally and they both shudder. “Counter point,” Matthew says, “what if you didn’t?”

“You make a convincing argument,” Clayton says, like Matthew’s cock isn’t halfway up to his stomach.

“You said you wanna know it’s real,” he reminds him with a sharp thrust. “It is.”

Clayton grins, and Matthew knows he’d do anything to put that expression on his face.

 _I’m a doomed man_ , he thinks joyfully.

Clayton pushes him back until he’s lying near completely flat, and then proceeds to try and fuck him through the mattress.

“Like I said,” he gasps out, “your voice was the only thing keeping me sane in that damned hellhole.”

Matthew can’t say anything, his voice isn’t his anymore. All he can do is keep making these small, breathy sounds – _ah ah ah_ – as Clayton continues to take him apart.

“So if you think, even for an _instant_ ,” Clayton says, hand holding Matthew’s face so that he can’t turn away, “that I was going to leave the second you brought me back – you are a _damned fool_ , Matthew Mason.”

Matthew kisses him.

“Got it, I’m an idiot, let’s do this forever,” Matthew breathes out, and Clayton laughs. He smiles, something positively wicked and full of love. “Darling, we’re just getting started.”

When Matthew wakes the next morning, he realizes two things:

  1. Seeing Clayton bare and sleepwarm _does_ absolutely destroy him;
  2. He will take on any number of eldritch horrors, trigger-happy drunks, and/or cutthroat bandits for the man.



“Right back at you,” Clayton mumbles, tucking his head deeper into Matthew’s shoulder. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blasphemous behaviors in a church, oh no what will they ~do~ 
> 
> It's done! Thanks everyone for reading!


End file.
